When Life Gives You Lemons … Make a Lemon Ice Box Pie!

I’m laughing to myself at this silly title that I just created for this post (because I reallyyyy want to call my mommy and ask her to make me a pie lol), but that’s honestly what this month has been like – a little bit sour. There have been highs and lows for the month of August and I figured out the issue:


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Roadtrippin’ feat. The Grand Canyon

In honor of summer coming to an end my girls and I took a mini road trip to Arizona to see the Grand Canyon. Once again, this is another of my things to do on the list of 101 in 1001. I talked to my travel agent Ms. Sonia to see if she could whip up a quick package for us. Like always she was able to work her magic, and get us a weekend trip to AZ. In order to keep in fashion of roadtrippin’, we rented a car and got on the road Friday night.

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Cent Jours (100 Days)

100 days, 100 nights
Senseless killing,
as the blind leads the blind
First thing you wanna scream is fck the feds
You want to stop police brutality, but your frame of mind is engulfed with a thugs  mentality
When will it end?
Lives are being taken, even before they fully begin
Niggas laid out in the street, struck by the metal
Oh wait – your reply is “cause I live in the ghetto”
Living in the slums, ghettos, hood – whateva
It makes it no better for you to kill a man you should call brother
He looks just like you, but in your eyes he’s just a number
Another notch on your belt of lives slain
All for you to gain fame in the game
Where is your soul?
Your heart has to feel
The pain, hurt, rage inside that frame
The lifeless body of those that you take,
Leads the same for you as you walk
Hollow – day by day
What will it take?
For you to wake up and see that revenge is never worth it
New age genocide, history repeated
Already devalued by Uncle Sam N Them
Then turn around and do the same thing to your own
Can’t you see that you’re adding to the numbers?
Unconsciously aiding in the plot
America – Home of the Slaves
Institutionalized while they constantly send us to the grave
But no, I’m sorry … I’m afraid; I’ll never understand
What it feels like to be a broken black man,
Raised by the streets
Friend to the hustle
Foe of the enemy
The only commonality we have is death
And to that end – that’s all it’ll ever be
All I ask is for you to stop the violence …

bisous, Bree ❤